Chapter Text
No sooner than the door to 221b Baker Street had closed with a soft click, Sherlock collapsed face first onto the sofa with a dramatic groan. “John, you owe me. Big time,” Sherlock complained, his voice muffled by the pillow his face was buried in.
For once John agreed, because he was incredibly proud of Sherlock. Instead of firing volleys of the snarkiest of remarks at Greg Lestrade, Sherlock had endured endless minutes of the DI waxing lyrical about Mycroft.
“He really is rather besotted with your brother,” John said, putting the kettle on and opening a package of biscuits.
“They, John. They are besotted, both Lestrade and Mycroft,” Sherlock all but yelled into the pillow. “How on earth, can they be this blind? It’s plain as day.” The consulting detective left the sofa and began rummaging through a drawer to find a desperately needed nicotine patch.
“Come on,” John said, carrying their teacups as well as the biscuits to the table before he sat down. “You have to agree that it is a bit funny.”
“Funny?” Sherlock stopped searching for a moment and looked at his friend incredulously. “I swear I’m going to bleed from my eyes if I have to watch another of their dopey smiles.”
John giggled into his cup as Sherlock finally found his patch and slapped it onto his arm, right below the two patches that already graced his skin.
Taking two biscuits and stuffing them into his mouth, Sherlock waved with the teacup in John’s direction. “I demand fish and chips, and you are going to go and shop for milk the next two months.”
John refrained from mentioning that, among themselves, it was always he who bought the milk anyway. “Alright,” he agreed readily. “And I’m sure they’ll catch on soon enough.”
2
Greg ran through Regent’s Park as if he was chased by wolves. Why couldn’t he keep his trap shut? Gushing about Mycroft in front of Sherlock, of all people. Greg had gone on and on about Mycroft’s intelligence and his suits for minutes on end before he even noticed what he was doing. Again. Red-faced he’d fled the premises, gone home and changed into his running gear.
For a man in his fifties Greg was still pretty fast. Playing football every so often and watching his diet, when he’d actually had a chance to watch it, did keep him in shape. Still, he wasn’t a spring chicken any longer. After a mile he slowed to a moderate trot to get both his heartbeat as well as breathing under control. The last thing he wanted was someone calling an ambulance because some old geezer fell over, probably from having suffered a stroke or heart attack.
In his mind he could all but hear Sally’s voice. “The age of fifty plus doesn’t make you Methuselah!” He couldn’t help it though. Ten years younger he might have stood a chance, even if it was a very slim one, with Mycroft Holmes. Now though? Greg doubted it. Why should that elegant, sophisticated man be interested in an old copper past his prime? He probably had people queueing to be taken to receptions with foreign diplomats or the Royals as arm-candy. Grey hair and a body marked by fifty-seven years of exposure to gravity were certainly no trademarks to be even considered.
His mind returned to Baker Street, where he’d all but run into Mycroft. He’d let out a delighted “Hi!” worthy of a star-struck 12 year old, and smiled in a way that probably left the impression that he was suffering from a seizure. Mycroft too had smiled for a second or two, but then turned away with a face that looked almost scarlet and rushed from the flat with barely more than a good-bye.
Greg decided to run another round before doing his usual set of stretches and heading home to make some dinner. Dinner that would be eaten in front of the telly while football was on. There were also some shirts to iron. What a stellar Thursday night!
Across London Mycroft sat on the patio and drank a cup of tea. Pondering, he came to the conclusion that it was the sense of belonging that was missing in his life. For a long time he’d thought himself belonging to the British government, but as much as he felt at home there, it no longer was enough. He wanted to belong to a family, but to his dismay he no longer had a family. Sherlock found the place where he belonged, at John Watson’s side. His mother hadn’t, and would never, forgiven him for lying about Eurus, and his father, well was his father, who walked in the shadow of his wife. He sighed, absently running a hand over his abdomen. The pain there wasn’t too bad today, but he’d promised himself to see his doctor the following week.
His gaze wandered through the garden and as it came to rest on his conservatory he couldn’t help but smile. Several years ago Mycroft had begun cultivating roses in the small garden behind his house. It kept him entertained during summer when parliament wasn’t in session, and had proved to be surprisingly relaxing. In the feeble hope it might help bring him the favourable attention he craved from the people he cared for, he’d even begun breeding roses after the incident at Sherrinford. Roses always had interested his mother, and bees, who’d become a recent interest of Sherlock, were interested in roses. His efforts didn’t get him more than a pat on the shoulder from his father, communicating that he respected that Mycroft tried, even though without even a sliver of success.
Still, Mycroft met a few intriguing people through that hobby. Anthea had introduced him to Mika, a woman with bushy hair who knew as much about roses as there was to know. In a joint effort Anthea and Mika even managed to persuade him to participate at the upcoming Chelsea Flower Show by displaying one of his roses. He’d decided on a tea rose with pink flowers and a gentle vanilla scent. Pink was his mother’s favourite colour. Mycroft knew he’d chosen that rose in the feeble hope to get on her good side again, but knew in his heart that it was hopeless.
Mycroft was roused from his brooding by a soft ping of his computer. He’d deny to his dying day that he was the tiniest bit grateful for the trouble-makers who plagued Regent’s Park because it resulted that CCTV being put up near prominent spots.
It was because of one of those cameras now displayed the image of the Triton and Dryads Fountain in Regent’s Park on Mycroft’s laptop. The fountain itself was of little interest to him, the figure who used the rim of the stone basin for stretching was a wholly different matter though. Watching Greg Lestrade, whose shirt and pants clung attractively to his body, bending over one propped up leg was enough to derail Mycroft’s train of thought successfully.
He conceded the Holmes brothers' tendency to addiction. Sherlock craved drugs. Mycroft craved the sight of one DI Greg Lestrade, who came with his own potency of being addictive. He’d seen the handsome inspector earlier, just before he left his brother’s place and the man’s smile had all but floored him. How was it possible for Lestrade to walk through London without both men and women alike falling to their knees, begging him to be taken home with him. It, was a mystery to Mycroft. He was equipped with all the traits that made him perfect husband-material. Caring, gentle, attentive and incredibly handsome. He’d never harm his partner, could hold a conversation on a whole variety of topics, and had a regular income that came with paid holidays, forty-hour week, etcetera. Naturally, the man wouldn’t consider someone like Mycroft for a partner. Who needed a standoffish toff with a hawkish nose, receding hairline and pale, freckled skin? He sighed into his teacup.
Mycroft kept watching Lestrade going through the rest of his stretching and walking away from the fountain before he switched off his laptop. He could follow him via CCTV, but even Mycroft knew that such behaviour was a bit creepy. Besides, he’d to bring the rose for the show from the conservatory. The last thing he needed was for anyone poking around and finding his prize possession held in the conservatory.
Getting up he winced when a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. Perhaps he should call his doctor today. He limped a few steps towards the conservatory. If anything, the pain got worse. With a groan he leaned against the door but without further warning his vision went black and he collapsed into an unconscious heap.
* * *
Listening to the news on the radio, Mika shook her head over the latest shenanigans concocted by the inhabitant of 10 Downing Street. Stopping the van in front of Mycroft Holmes’ house, she hopped out and quickly unloaded the trolley with the transport case for the rose he’d bread and prepared for this year's flower show. Hopefully it wasn’t another yellow because, as beautiful as they were, there were too many yellow roses on display already. As she’d been instructed, she walked around the house and punched in the numbers at the keypad that secured the heavy wooden door leading to the garden. Once again she was struck by the beauty of this small but impeccable sanctuary. A set of two folding chairs and a small round table, each item looking like it had come right from some French bistro, stood in a nook between blooming shrubs. It was clear to her though that the owner of the garden preferred the single reclining sun lounger with a thick cushion that stood on the porch. It made her long to spend her afternoon right there, reading, drinking tea or having a nap. Perhaps one day she’d be able to afford one of those undoubtedly expensive chairs.
Since Mr. Holmes wasn’t in sight, she called out, already walking towards the conservatory at the end of the garden. She didn’t receive an answer, which was very unusual, especially since the doors stood wide open. Perhaps the man had made a quick dash to the bathroom, she wondered. Her train of thought came to a screeching halt when she detected the body of the very man she’d been looking for, lying on the ground.
“Mr. Holmes!” Mika knelt down next to him, seeing that he was barely conscious. He looked pale, shivered and his hands were pressed to his abdomen.
Fishing her mobile from her pocket, she dialed 999 to call an ambulance. The woman answering her call told her it would be less than 10 minutes until the car got there. She called Anthea next, although she was certain Mr Holmes’s PA had been informed immediately that an ambulance was dispatched to his address.
Once she had fetched the blanket she had seen on the recliner and wrapped it around the man on the ground, Mika had no idea what to do next. The only thing she could remember from the first aid training she had received over the years was “try to stay calm, talk to the injured person”. Right, she could do that. Possibly. What on earth was she supposed to tell Mr. Holmes? Roses. Yes, she was there to pick up that rose, and he would be probably worried that his rose wouldn’t make it to the flower show. The least she could do was to take that problem of his mind.
“I’m here to pick up your rose, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Don’t worry about that. As soon as the ambulance arrives I’ll get your rose and take it to the show. I promise it will be on display and enter the competition, why you are taken care off in hospital. Everything is going to be fine.”
“Gregory,” Mycroft babbled.
“Gregory? Is that the name of the rose?” Mika asked. “An unusual name but it’s good, really good. I like it. It will stand out between all the princesses, famous Shakespeare characters or names people have problems to pronounce correctly.”
“No, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice slurred.
‘Probably his boyfriend,’ Mika thought, while wondering what that rose would look like.
A pounding on the wooden garden door startled her. Of course, the people from the ambulance wouldn’t have the code. She only got it to pick up the rose and because she was a long term friend of Anthea. Still the weeks prior she’d gone through a security check so thorough that she was certain she could even waltz into the White House without any problems.
While the paramedics took care of Mycroft, Mika looked around the conservatory and stopped dead in her tracks. “What the fuck...” Never ever had she seen a rose like the one standing proudly in the middle of the room. A shrub rose with large, classically shaped flowers that were the colour of milk chocolate. Mika knew there were roses with toffee coloured flowers, but the ones she saw now looked good enough to eat. Smelling the rose, she found herself engulfed in a scent she knew was called myrrh, an aromatic, licorice warmth of sweet anise.
“Good lord,” she whispered. The rose, that obviously went by the name of Gregory, was a winner. Without further ado she carefully placed the rose in the container she’d brought, loaded it into the van and drove off.